by Michaela A. Gabriel
(11/22/06)

Report with morning dew

I heard myself whispering your name in dreams, woke up hungry -
one hand warm between my legs, a damp film on my thighs like dew.

Report with a damp patch

Ah yes, he whispered into the cleft, tongue probing soft folds. Sweet scent stained
fingers, chin, the crumpled sheets. I dreamed of being an orange in his hands.

between two sips of soda

I tell him I never wear panties on wednesdays
and I can see his eyes flickering towards the clock,
his expression teetering on the brink of disbelief

I know what he wants to ask but his mind is too
busy thinking of cold morning showers and mrs b.,
his ugly pre-school teacher, to phrase a question

so I explain it's because I lost my wednesday pants
when I was little and this is how I commemorate loss,
week after week, it's nothing personal, don't worry

nothing personal, I say, with a wink that has no roots
in childhood, a grin unfamiliar with innocence, and I
settle back in my seat, dip my finger in whipped cream

and he doesn't dare lean across the table and suck,
can't find the words for yet another question, so I say
no, there is no proof but why would I lie, surely not

because I get a kick out of turning him on, knowing
how impossible it is to escape to the men's room,
how impossible to stay, and then I lick off the blob

of cream and answer one last question I read on
his face, roughly running a moist index finger across
his cheek to tell him yes, and that's exactly how much

after dessert, in the bathroom

hands and mouth are rough
but far from denying me any

pleasure. beneath his fingers,
areolae tighten, nipples stand to

attention. bent over a spotless
sink, quickened breath mists the

mirror as he draws wet lips apart,
enters me with a strangled sigh,

a force so welcome, so new
I wonder why I've never before

fucked a stranger whose eye
caught mine over boring dinner

conversations that can only lead
to stifled yawns, secret dreams of

sex.

after the weekend

you tell me you bought your girlfriend
a vibrator. red, you write. red.

this leaves me unsatisfied. today,
i am obsessed with details:

i want to pick up the phone, find out
if it's a cocky crimson, plain tomato red,

flashy firebrick. i doubt it's any subdued
shade of that colour of sin.

not a word about size, only a hint
that it's a perfect fit. no need

to wonder who reinterpreted shopping
for household items, who saw it first.

i know it was you. you never
thought much of flowers.

Our permanent collection of erotic poetry